


No Goodbyes for John

by 2babyturtles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Flash Fic, Gen, Grief, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-29
Updated: 2017-10-29
Packaged: 2019-01-26 05:49:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12550560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2babyturtles/pseuds/2babyturtles
Summary: It's been a long time since anything happened to John Watson.





	No Goodbyes for John

It’s been a long time since anything happened to John Watson. Too long. When he first realized this, he was suspicious. It seemed all too likely that Sherlock was testing the long-term effects of some drug, or that a criminal mastermind was just waiting for the opportunity to assault one or both of them. Now, however, he can’t pretend anything interesting is likely to happen again at all.

He keeps his eyes on the sidewalk in front of him as he trudges down the road, each step taking him slightly closer to a house that doesn’t feel so much like home anymore. Of course, 221B will always be home. But it’s different now that Rosie’s gone and Molly’s gone and everything that ever really made it home is gone. They don’t even have a chair out for clients anymore.

In his pockets, his hands clench into fists, and he forces away the dark thoughts. It’s not all bad and he knows he shouldn’t be so down about it. It’s sort of nice to just live with Sherlock in restless peace. Restless primarily on the former detective’s end. There’s not much he hates more than peace and he can hardly seem to sit still. That’s what scares John the most. Knowing Sherlock is so consumed with hatred for this new life that he’s as likely to die of boredom as to kill for it.

Before he’s even realized where his feet have taken him, he’s outside 221B and his hand is on the old brass handle. Mrs. Hudson’s gone, too, and it really isn’t the same place anymore. Too many shadows haunt these hallowed grounds.

John makes his way upstairs and into the flat, where he takes his seat and stares into the fire. It’s cold, though, and he’s really just staring into coals.

“Sherlock?” he calls softly, hardly above a whisper. “I’m home.”

Oh that’s right.

Sherlock’s gone, too.


End file.
